THE

FIRST OF APRIL.

'Twas on the Morn when April doth appear,
And wets the Primrose with its maiden tear;
'Twas on the Morn when laughing Folly rules,
And calls her Sons around, and dubs them Fools;
Bids them be bold, some untry'd path explore,
And do such deeds as Fools ne'er did before;
'Twas on that Morn, when Fancy took her stand
Beside my couch, and, with fantastic wand,
Wav'd, from her airy cells, the Antic Train
That play their gay delusions on the brain:
And strait, methought, a rude impetuous Throng,
With noise and riot, hurried me along,
To where a sumptuous Building met my eyes,
Whose gilded turrets seem'd to dare the skies.
To every Wind it op'd an ample door,
From every Wind tumultuous thousands pour.
With these I enter'd a stupendous Hall,
The scene of some approaching festival.
O'er the wide portals, full in sight, were spread
Banners of yellow hue, bestrip'd with red,
Whereon, in golden characters, were seen:
The Anniversary of Folly's Queen!
Strange motley ornaments the Building grac'd,
With every emblem of corrupted Taste.
No stately Column rose to meet the Dome,
No Sculpture borrow'd from the Arts of Rome;
No well-wrought Frieze crept graceful on the walls,
Th' Acanthus weav'd no splendid Capitals;
Nor did the Attic elegance supply
One simple foliage for the judging eye.
But, in their stead, Confusion void of Sense,
And all the pride of false Magnificence,
Display'd an idle, vain, fantastic show,
Fit only for the Crowd that gaz'd below.

Gay China's unsubstantial forms supply
The place of Beauty, Strength, Simplicity.
Each varied colour, of the brightest hue,
The green, the red, the yellow, and the blue,
In every part the dazzled eyes behold,
Here streak'd with silver, there enrich'd with gold;
While fancied forms upon the ceiling sprawl,
And shapeless monsters decorate the wall.

In every scatter'd niche I look'd in vain
For Heroes famous on th' embattled plain;
Or animated Bust, whose brow severe
Mark'd the sage Statesman or Philosopher.
But in the place of those whose Patriot fame
Gave glory to the Greek and Roman name,
Or Heroes who for Freedom bravely fought,
Men without heads,—and Heads that' never thought,
Greet my sick eye,—with all their names enroll'd
In the vain pomp of prostituted gold.

Nor had the Painter's active hand restrain'd
The all-bedaubing brush: the walls were stain'd
With the gay colourings of capricious Art,
Wherein nor Truth nor Genius bore a part.
There Sigismunda's form again I knew,
Which Folly hinted, and old Hogarth drew.
No sketch of Reynold's pencil did appear,
Science and Taste found no admittance there;
But the vain Painter had essay'd to trace,
In rude distortion, and with strange grimace,
Each story the Historic Pages tell,
Where Folly triumph'd, and where Wisdom fell.

There the great Bacon, whose sagacious eye
Pierc'd through the gloom of dark Philosophy,
And to the World unveil'd her awful face,
Crouch'd a low, servile Courtier in disgrace.
There Pulteney, who the first stout bulwark stood
Of British Freedom 'gainst the torrent flood
Of dire Corruption, having stemm'd the wave,
Shook off the Patriot, and became the Slave.
There Pitt, whose great and comprehensive soul
No threats could frighten, no events controul;
Whose name dash'd terror on his Country's foes,
From Gallia's Shores to where the Ganges flows
Through Eastern Nations;—There he wore the chain
Of Royal Gold, and join'd the pension'd Train.
But the Muse weeps, and drops the silent tear
O'er the sad truths which were recorded there.

High, in the midst, a Pageant of a Throne
In the extreme of Tinsel Splendor shone.
No Sacred Ensigns, no Imperial Chair,
Mark'd the high worth of those who counseled there;
But, shaded by a Curtain's vivid green,
A splendid, soft, luxuriant Couch was seen.
The spangled Banners glitter'd all around,
And the unfolded Silver strew'd the ground;
While the false Mirrors pain the dazzled eye
With mingled Forms, and gay Perplexity.
Hung from the roof by many a golden thread,
The Canopy its airy cov'ring spread,

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